The Red Box
by Galorya
Summary: Sherlock isn't the only one in the world who gets bored.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello! I am not British, so I apologize for anything that doesn't sound... British. Please let me know! :) Enjoy!**

**Prologue**

"Hand me your phone," Sherlock Holmes said flatly, interrupting the long silence that had come over the room. "I need to send a text."

John Watson, his focus having vanished at the disruption, glanced up from his laptop. "And you can't use yours because...?"

The consulting detective's expression remained deadpan at his friend's annoyed tone. "Mine's not working," He answered simply. "No service."

With a roll of his eyes, John reached into his pocket, pulling his mobile out. Upon further examination, he found that his phone was no better than Sherlock's. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but mine's not working either."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, frowning slightly. "Huh."


	2. The City that Stopped

**A/N: Now for the first official chapter! Enjoy! :)**

**Chapter One: The City that Stopped**

_"The cities transportation was at a standstill today-"_

_Click_

_"Why did both the mobile service and internet stop working for fifteen minutes exactly today? Hear more after the break-"_

_Click._

_"Two sewage lines in central London burst today, for an unknown reason-"_

The reporter's speech was cut off by the click of the remote. Sherlock sat back in his chair, steepling both hands under his chin. "Well," He said finally, after a few moments of thought. "I'm sure Lestrade will have some sort of case for us."

John looked up. "Sorry?"

Scotland Yard, as Sherlock had anticipated, was frantic with the recent events. People were rushing by, shouting at eachother. It was rather barbaric.

Greg Lestrade rose from his chair upon seeing the two men enter his office. "I'm glad you're here," He said, then gestured to the man next to him. "This is Allen Jones, a MI5 agent. He's here to help figure out this whole bombing thing."

"What? Bombing?" John asked, taken aback.

"Yes, a bombing," Sherlock answered quickly. "Now, where's the letter?"

Greg reached for the manilla envelope on his desk. "There's no fingerprints on it, a DNA analysis has been sent to the lab, though it's unlikely they'll actually find anything." He claimed as he handed Sherlock the letter.

Agent Jones stepped forward. "We have reason to believe these acts of terrorism are related to the IRA."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the agent, slightly annoyed, before returning his focus to the letter. The front read, "To George Lestrade", something which made Sherlock's lip twitch in a slight smirk. He carefully opened the envelope before pulling the piece of parchment out. On the letter, in dark black ink, were these words:

_"Little pig! Little pig! Let me come in!_

_There's a bomb at Waterloo Station, better find it quick!_

_- The Big Bad Wolf"_

The letter was obviously not hand written; Most likely done intentionally by the sender himself. A distinct handwriting would have been far easier to trace. Sherlock inspected the letter, his eyes narrowing as he brought the paper closer to his face, sniffing it. The strong smell of bleach riddled the entire letter, likely to cover up any evidence. To his frustration, however, the letter gave nothing of great importance in terms of clues.

"Did you find the bomb?" John asked as Greg as Sherlock handed the letter back.

"There wasn't a bomb," Sherlock replied sharply. "It was a threat. If he really wanted to bomb something he wouldn't have told anyone."

"What about the sewage lines? The phones? The internet? Anything on that?" John questioned further.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. This bloke's been moving so fast, and we haven't even had time to process all of this. We aren't even sure if it's the same guy."

John nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "What do you think, Sher-?" He turned to see his friend striding purposefully down the hallway.

Sherlock sat silently in Baker Street, his hands steepled under his chin in deep thought. After months of boring, tedious cases, finally something exciting was happening. Three-no, four- seemingly random instances happening within the same time frame; no phone or internet service for approximately fifteen minutes, which was the perfect distraction. Those fifteen minutes gained the attention while the bomber's preparations for other acts went by unnoticed. It was almost fool-proof, really, and it boggled Sherlock to think that Scotland Yard could be so dense.

Well, on second thought, maybe it didn't.

_There are three reception towers near the station. Two of which stand on either side of a small residential area (Stamford Street) three-fifths of a kilometer from Waterloo station. The other stands beside the burst sewage line, which are three-quarters of a kilometer from the metro station. As for the internet; any small source can easily be tampered with. He mouth twitched in a slight smile at his own deductions._ There were three distinct possibilities in that small area near the metro station. All Sherlock had to do was show-up, and he would solve this mystery.

How Scotland Yard could have missed such details were a mystery to him. One would think after associating with Sherlock Holmes himself for so long would help improve their methods.

John stepped into the flat, staring at Sherlock as if he expected an explanation for his abrupt departure earlier in the day. He didn't really need one though. Working with the consulting detective as long as he had taught him to just let things happen, and to not question them. Sherlock glanced up at him, making the very face Watson hated more than anything; the 'We both know what's going on here' expression.

"Stop that," John snapped, before sighing. "What do you got?"

"Lestrade said it couldn't be the same person, yes?"

"Yes,"

"Well, as a matter of fact, it is."

"What makes you think that?" John asked in annoyance. He truly hated when Sherlock didn't just explain something right away.

Sherlock eyed him as if John had just said the most idiotic thing he'd ever heard. "It's obvious isn't it?"


	3. Would You Like to Take a Survey?

**A/N: Hello! Here again! I have this story all written, so I should have it completely up by next week. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Two: Would You Like to Take a Survey?**

The neighborhood near the Waterloo station was exactly as Sherlock expected; small and unassuming. It wasn't an entirely ideal place for a criminal genius to call his hide-out, but that was besides the point. Based on what Sherlock knew of London and it's surrounding area, this was the place.

"Remind me again," John requested. "Why exactly would the bomber be here?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turning to face his friend. He gestured to the right of the houses. "Over there; a mobile reception tower." He then pointed behind them. "Another over there. And about three-fifths of a kilometer west is the Waterloo station."

John nodded slowly, coming to an understanding. "It all overlaps here."

"Exactly," Sherlock replied with a smirk, before bounding ahead.

"So," John began, struggling to catch up with him. "What's the plan?"

"You'll see," He answered as they came to the first house, bringing his hand to the bell. The ring resonated throughout the home; a loud yipping was heard, along with a shrill female voice, scolding the animal. _Small dog, six or seven pounds. No threat._ Sherlock took the time to pull a clipboard from his coat, before handing it to John. Within a minute, a perky, petite blonde with a blinding smile answered the door.

"Oh, hello!" She said breathlessly. "How can I help you gentlemen?"

John smiled warmly back at her. "Yes, we're here to-"

He was cut-off by Sherlock, who had stepped in front of him. He reached out to shake the woman's hand. "We're taking a survey for the paper about the recent internet and phone issues, ma'am. May we come in?"

She faltered for a second before beckoning them to follow her and leading them to the sitting room. Wood floors, just dusted. Irrelevant. Sherlock was less than impressed with this woman's house. "Sorry about the mess," She apologized, even though there wasn't a mess that could be seen. Sherlock, however, notice a wedding ring on her finger. "Is your husband home?"

"Yes, he is! Let me fetch him," She replied, disappearing from the room after seating them on a large, plush brown leather couch. "Bruce! Some gentlemen are here to take a survey!" She yelled, her shrill voice ringing through the air, making Sherlock cringe slightly.

"A _what?_" A male voice called back.

"A survey!"

"So," John began, leaning forward, addressing the couple before them. He didn't really know how to go about this. He didn't even know what the plan was until they arrived. He glanced down at the clipboard in his hands, and was relieved to find pre-written questions. "So, where do you work?"

Bruce beamed proudly, "I am a PR rep for Enviromental Energy Services," He said before handing John a business card.

John cleared his throat again. "Do you two have mobiles?"

The couple, Bruce and Annie, answered yes simultaneously, before giggling at their synchronization. They sat on a loveseat opposite of the couch, made from the same dark leather. The very air around them spoke 'deliriously in love'. _Newlyweds_. The way they held their hands together; the way they would smile and laugh when they spoke at the same time was a dead giveaway. It made John remember when he and Mary were in that phase of their relationship.

It made Sherlock ill. Such displays of domesticity were sickening.

The couple's constant stream of "No, you go first!", "No, you go first!" was practically stomping on his very last nerve. Twelve agonizing questions later, they were almost done.

"And how often would you say you use your phone?" John asked, unsure how these questions were going to help them.

"Oh, every day!" Annie exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "Mostly just to talk to this handsome man when he's at work," She added, winking at her husband.

Bruce chuckled, wrapping an arm around his wife. "My Annie's so lovely, isn't she?"

"Right, and how often do you use your mobile, Bruce?"

"I use it as my, uh, work and personal phone," Bruce stuttered.

_Liar._

Bruce's demeanor had changed quite quickly. The way kept looking between Annie and fidgeting in his seat. He was nervous; but why? What was he worried about? Something he was keeping from Annie, maybe. Or perhaps he feared his wife, but that was longshot. The only fear Sherlock could see anyone having of Annie is the fear of having to hear that shrill voice for another second.

"What do you use the internet for?" John leaned back as he asked the final question.

"Oh, emails and keeping up with family," Annie gushed. "That sort of thing."

Bruce glanced over at wife, then back over at John. "Work. I use it for work," He claimed, clearing his throat. A thin layer of sweat began to form on his brow. He shifted in his seat, putting space between his bride and himself.

Sherlock nodded, now understanding the man's worry. "Pornography?"

"I don't see why you always feel the need to say what's on your mind," John scolded Sherlock as they walked to the next house. "I truly don't."

"Leaves me with a clear conscience," Sherlock responded with a tint of humor.

John chuckled, shaking his head. "So it wasn't them?"

"Of course not," Sherlock stated simply. "Hardly criminal mastermind material."

"Ah," John replied quietly.

The next house was not nearly as inviting as the other had been. The overgrown grass and weeds in front garden, the chipping paint, and the ashtray on the porch overflowing with wet cigarettes just didn't give the house any charm. The strong odor of tom-cat urine filled the air as they stepped onto the porch. Finding no bell, John hesitantly knocked on the frail wooden door.

The door opened slowly to reveal a tall, lanky man in a hoodie. "What d'you want?" He asked, his speech slurred.

"Hello sir," John finally managed. "Uh, we're here to give a survey about the recent-"

"We don't want your survey. Get lost."

"Well," John said, stammering. "Okay." He finished with a curt nod.

"No," Sherlock said as they moved on towards the next house.

"'No' what?" John asked, confused.

"I know what you're thinking, but I doubt it was them."

"They were rather shady, don't you think?"

"They are criminals, yes," Sherlock replied, then continued. "They are hiding something, but not what we're after."

John quirked an eyebrow quizzically as they stood infront of the final home.

"Drugs." Sherlock confirmed, answering John's unasked question while ringing the doorbell.

A short, portly man with salt and pepper hair answered the door. His moustache was perfectly trimmed and he wore a dark green sweater vest. The man positively beamed at the sight of the two visitors. "Well hello there, young sirs! What can I do for you?"

Sherlock gave him the once-over, before quickly turning around. "Nope."

John grabbed him before he could leave. "Sherlock," He said under his breath through gritted teeth, before clearing his throat and addressing the man at the door. "Hello! We're here to give a survey on todays recent events for the paper. May we come in?"

"Certainly!" The balding man gushed, stepping aside to let them through.

_Recently vacuumed carpets, plastic on furniture._ The smell of gardenias almost overpowered the scent of freshly bleached floors. The very air seemed as if it had been sterilized.

"Oh, where are my manners?" Their host laughed. "The name's Walt. Walt Whitacre at your service!" The man named Walt exclaimed, roughly taking each of their hands separately in a firm handshake.

Sherlock took the man's hand. "You can call me Scott," He said, then gestured to his friend. "And this is Hamish!"

"Such strong names!" Walt praised with a grin from ear to ear. "Just let me get the misses!"

Moments later, a tall, long-legged woman descended the staircase. Her thin lips formed a smile as she greeted their guests. "What's all this about?"

"Freddie, dear, this is Scott and Hamish!" Walt exclaimed with excitement. "They're here to give a survey!"

"A survey?" His wife gushed. "I love surveys! Is there a prize?"

"Uhm, no." John said simply, smiling slightly.

The couple led Sherlock and John to a large room, complete with a couch and dining set. As far as decoration went, there was only the occasional plant and old painting. Sherlock glanced around the room as he sat in one of the large chairs. _No television. Four chairs, three are used regularly._ "Do you have a child?"

"Why yes!" Freddie responded excitedly. "Is that the first question? Oh, we're doing so well, Walt!"

Sherlock and John exchanged glances before returning their attention to their hosts.

"Will!" Walt called out. "Will, come down, son!"

The sound of feet shuffling down the stairs caught Sherlock's attention. A little boy, about the age of six or seven, stood before them. He held onto the railing, still standing on the last step.

"Willoughby, my boy," Walt said. "Come here!"

The little boy moved forward cautiously. He sat between his two parents, his shoulders stiff as he folded his hands into his lap.

"Say hello, dear!" His mother said sweetly.

"Hello," The words were almost a whisper from the boy. It wasn't out of fear from what Sherlock could tell; the boy was uncomfortable.

John smiled a friendly smile, leaning forward as the plastic on the chair gave an awkward squeak. "Hello, son," He greeted, earning no response from little Will. John cleared his throat before asking the first question. "Well, first off, Where do you work?"

"Just a small paper company, called 'Muff and Crotchett.' I have a card if you would like one?" Mr. Whitacre said, reaching into his billfold.

"That won't be nessassary. Do you have employment, Mrs. Whitacre?"

"Yes I work for Enviromental Energy Services. I am the CEO's secretary." She stated proudly.

"That's lovely," John said, as he underlined the companies name twice. "Do you have a mobile?"

Walt was the first to answer. "Yes, in fact, I got a smartmobile iPhone 5, the older version. I can't really make heads or tails of it though," He admitted, then added, "I usually have Will help me. He's a bright young man."

The child stayed quiet through most of the survey, as his parents did all of the talking.

"Do we use the internet?" Freddie repeated curiously. "There's really no use for it, but yes, we have it. But don't worry, I've had a childblock put on it though so little Willow can't see anything inappropriate."

John glanced over at Sherlock as the overbearing parents fawned over their child. 'Willow?' he mouthed, holding back a smile. Sherlock didn't bother hiding his own.

Sherlock recovered before the parents looked back to him. "What about the situation with the tubes, Mr. Whitacre? Did that affect you?"

Walt sighed in exasperation. "No, not really. I have a car you know. But what a ruddy thing, that. I'd hate to be stuck downtown for," He paused, looking at his wife. "What was it, three hours?"

"It's a shame!" Freddie added, nodding enthusiastically. "Poor little Willow was clear on the other side of London with his minder!"

The detective wasn't really listening to their answer, as he was too busy scanning the child before him. _Detached earlobes, pale complexion, lack of a widow's peak._ Nothing Sherlock found matched up with Walt and Freddie. _Adopted._ "When did you adopt your son?"

Mrs. Whitacre's jaw dropped, a small gasp of surprise and anger escaping her. She hastily covered both of Will's ears with her manicured hands. Her incredulous stare along with her mouth gaped open the entire time was slightly unnerving

Walt cleared his throat. "We've not told him, yet," He hissed through clenched teeth.

The two parents glared directly at Sherlock, shooting daggers with their eyes.

"But," Willoughby said, finally speaking up. "I already knew that."

His parents turned their focus to him, their faces dripping with confusion. "What do you mean?" Freddie asked, her eyebrows knitting together as she dropped her hands from his head.

"I figured out on my own, Mother," the little boy began. "Both of you have attached earlobes. It would impossible for me to have detached. I learned it on the internet."

"Bloody internet!" Freddie shrieked, then covered her mouth in horror.

"I have some questions," Willoughby requested. "What paper are you doing this survey for and why is a detective giving it?"

It was now Sherlock and John's turn to stare at the little boy with surprise.

Freddie scoffed. "Darling, what makes you think he's a detective?"

Sherlock and John started to rise from their chairs, John gathering the clipboard and pen hastily.

"He's on the internet!" Willoughby said proudly.

"And that is all we have time for," John said quickly as he and Sherlock rushed to the front door, the family of three following close behind. They were able to make it just outside before John turned back around to say, "Thank you for your time."

The door slammed shut in his face.

"That was close," John said as they walked to the street. "Well, what do you make of them?"

Sherlock stood for a moment. "Two moronic parents and a child with some intellect? I doubt it."

"So, they're not trouble?"

"Oh no. Not to us anyway," Sherlock answered. "Though, he'll certainly make their life miserable later on."

"So you were wrong," John stated, hailing a cab.

"Sorry?"

"You were wrong. The bomber wasn't there."

"It was a miscalculation on my part. And there was no bomb."

John smiled slightly, shaking his head as he ducked into the cab.


	4. A Minor Miscalculation

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I really appreciate it! Any feedback is awesome as well. :)**

He couldn't have been wrong. He _couldn't _have. Something about this entire case didn't sit well with Sherlock. He paced the entryway in Baker Street back and forth for what seemed like hours. The would-be bomber was going to strike again; this, he was sure of. Though this time, there was no guarantee that the bomb would be a fake.

_Think. Where is he going to strike next? First he stops communication for fifteen minutes, then causes a sewage line to burst, but how? Hacking a sewage line isn't even possible. He pondered, growing more frustrated by the minute. Finally, he stops transportation. Oh, but that was only the beginning. He means to get our attention, only to give the final blow later._

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, gasping at the connection. "Of course," He mumbled under his breath. "Attention. He wants attention."

"He's going to strike again," Sherlock declared as he stepped purposefully into Lestrade's office, John following close behind.

The older man stared blankly back at him. "What are you on about? The bomber?"

"He hasn't bombed anything yet," Sherlock corrected. "The would-be bomber."

"What makes you so sure that he'll do it again?" Agent Jones asked skeptically, folding his arms across his chest defiantly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the MI5 man, thoroughly annoyed at his ignorance. "Waterloo was just act one. Our man wants a big finish for the second act; so, he attacks a public place, thousands of people watching. He wants an audience."

The silence that followed was deafening, the realization sinking in. Lestrade finally spoke up. "When? Where?"

"The would-be-bomber used events that he knew were going to happen He then manipulated those circumstances to cause the all the chaos." In one breath, Sherlock began his monologue, as he paced the office. "The big clue was the sewage line. There is no way to 'hack' a line burst, so he must have known it was going to happen. He knew that a company was about to purge something that would cause such an accident. He planned everything else around that event. We know this is going to happen again because there are other events coming up that will cause an ample amount of traffic. And, with the right stimuli, has the capability of stopping London travel for at least half a day." Sherlock finished, dramatically turning and stopping in place.

He looked at the confused faces of his audience. "Do I have to spell it out for you?" He mocked, narrowing his eyes. "Tuesday there will be a football match between two very popular teams; A famous pop star is going to perform a free concert for charity; Construction work is set to begin on the N1. And finally, Environmental Energy Services is moving forty-six large lorries. Traffic that day will be worse than normal, but with the bomb in a public place..."

"Good God! London would be at a stand still!" Agent Jones shouted. "Cancel the construction, cancel EES freight shipment! But lets keep this quiet, people. I don't want the media getting a hold of this."

"Yes, I was about to say that." Sherlock growled, giving the insufferable agent a cold, steely glare.

The letter arrived on Tuesday, just as Sherlock predicted.

He held the letter to his face, sniffing it as he had done with the previous. The exact bleach smell that was on the former letter was also present on this one, though not nearly as strong. The content of the letter was as it was before; typed, not hand-written. He clenched his jaw in frustration as he read:

_"I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in! _

_Piccadilly Circus! And this one's real! _

_-The Big Bad Wolf"_

The first letter may have been an empty threat, but how were they to know that this one wasn't?

The bomb itself was not hard to find. There was a large, black backpack on the edge of the sidewalk; and no one was seeming to claim it as their own. Sherlock and John watched as bomb disposal cautiously moved towards the backpack. Lestrade stood near them, ordering civilians to stay back.

Time stood still as the bomb specialist opened the bag, his shoulders tense. The man didn't say anything as he peered inside.

"Well?" Lestrade asked impatiently, growing more worried by each second that went by.

To their surprise, the specialist stood up and moved towards them, holding a small cardboard box in his hand, a piece of paper in the other. He held the items out for Lestrade to see.

"What?" John asked in disbelief.

In the man's hands was a red box with a single cherry-bomb. A firework?

Sherlock ripped the note from the man's grasp, hastily opening it. He groaned in frustration upon reading it before handing it roughly to Lestrade.

_"KABOOM!"_

"What?!" Lestrade exclaimed angrily, clearly frustrated at the amount of time and money that was spent on this bomb disposal. "You have got to be joking!"

Baker Street was silent the following morning and afternoon. Sherlock had left the crime scene without another word the night before. He needed to think… again. It frustrated him to not know the identity of the Wolf. His anonymity was driving the consulting detective insane. Sherlock racked his brain for anything he'd missed; something to help him piece together this puzzle. The tea he'd made hours before had become cold.

Sherlock knew how this man thought. Not because the Wolf was predictable, but because he and Sherlock had a similar mind. It had to be one of the people he surveyed. The Whitacres were entirely too ordinary for such a feat and the drug smugglers were just that; drug addicts, and nothing more. Those simple facts Sherlock could hold onto. Perhaps he had misjudged Bruce's nervousness. For all he knew, Annie could have been an excellent actress. As much as Sherlock would hate to admit, he had been tricked by women before; Mary, Janine (to some extent), and The Woman had all in some way, fooled the consulting detective. Maybe it wasn't so insane an idea that Annie was the would-be bomber. Then again, If Annie could fake idiocy then so could the Whitacres. In fact, the two families were both too absured to be real. Perhaps it wasn't the work of one man, but a group. Just what did Enviromental Energy Services do? Perhaps it was a company of evil, perhaps... No, he was sounding like Anderson. This was the work of one man. A genius, but still only one man.

Sherlock didn't even notice as John stepped into the flat, taking in his surroundings. The detective was startled out of his focus as John spoke. "You've been sitting there all day," He observed, eyeing the detective carefully.

He glanced up at John, gesturing to his cold drink. "No, I made tea."

"Well, that makes it better," John replied sarcastically.

Sherlock ignored the snarky comment as he muttered under his breath, "Something's missing."

"You? Missing something?" John asked in mock terror, leaving the sitting room and entering the kitchen.

Not even moving from his spot on the couch, Sherlock called out, "Make another cuppa for me, would you? Two sugars."

He could almost hear John roll his eyes at the request. "It's a bit immature don't you think? I'm not your nanny."

Sherlock's eyes flew open at John's words. "Mature!" He gasped. "Yes!"

"Sherlock?" The light voice of Mrs. Hudson called out as she walked through the door. "You've got a client."


	5. Always Bored

**A/N: Well, this is the end... of this installment. This is only the beginning of a series my sister and I planned out. Thanks for reading and reviewing! :)**

Sherlock had barely registered Mrs. Hudson's interruption, putting his semi-permanent mute button for her to use. There wasn't time for visitors or clients at this point.

John stepped into the room, tea in hand, doing a double take as he saw the familiar child standing next to Mrs. Hudson. "Willoughby!"

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up from the couch, still ignoring the boy at the door. "It was Willoughby!"

"Yes," the boy confirmed. "It was me."

Upon hearing the soft voice, Sherlock turned, not entirely surprised to see the young child. Not moments before, he had come to the conclusion that he at first didn't think possible. The thought that a child was capable of so many devious things seemed _im_possible. The detective had of course met bright children before, but none who were smart enough to bring the entire city of London to a complete stop for a brief time. But, 'Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be true.' Willoughby was able to deduce his own relation to his parents, or lack thereof, and was proficient in computer mechanics. To commit these certain acts, one would need a vast knowledge of technology. And of course, Willoughby, being bored and intelligent, sought attention and recognition. Sherlock knew the effect of suppressing a superior mind could end badly. He had seen it before many times, and in some cases, experienced it himself. He wasn't the only person in the world who got 'bored.'

Sherlock found that he wasn't bothered by not figuring it out sooner, but rather, he was impressed that the young boy had been clever enough to trick him. Willoughby knew that Sherlock was a detective as soon as he'd seen him. The fact that a boy at such a young age was able to act so calmly in the face of being caught was truly admirable.

"Why don't you sit down, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked Willoughby, stooping herself down to his height. "I'll get you a nice cuppa."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began as he gestured for the child to sit on the couch. "That won't be necessary. Thank you," He added with a final nod, not so subtly asking her to leave.

She gave a 'hmph' before descending the stairs to her own flat.

The door clicked shut behind her. "So," Sherlock said, folding his hands behind his back. "All of it was you? The phones? The internet? The bomb?"

"Yup," the child replied, staring up at the tall detective. "It was me."

"What?" John asked, having trouble believing that a seven year old was capable of such crimes.

"I'm the wolf!" Willoughby exclaimed proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

Sherlock felt a small sense of pride, knowing what this boy had been able to pull off in such a short amount of time. It was such a rare occurrence for Sherlock to meet people who were like him intellectually, not to mention a child. The feeling was well hidden, however, as Sherlock was able to hold onto his apparent indifference.

"Wait," John said, holding a hand up. "Then why are you here, telling us? Is this a confession?"

"I got in trouble," He replied, earning a small smirk from Sherlock. "I'm not supposed to be doing that."

"You're dad find out?"

To this, Sherlock and Willoughby both rolled their eyes simultaneously. "Of course not," Sherlock answered for the boy. "Have you seen his father?"

"Exactly," Willoughby added. "My minder found out. He was very unhappy. Now I can't use to computer for two weeks," He pouted.

"I can't imagine why," John snarked, earning himself a steely glare from the boy. "Okay," John said, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Why did you do it?"

The boy shrugged in response. "I don't really get to do a lot, you know," He said solemnly. "Winifred and Walter don't like me going anywhere without my minder. The only times I can do things on my own are in my room or at school, and I don't talk to anyone at school. They all treat me like I'm some kind of alien. But I always have my computer. Mother thinks she can control me, but I know ways to get around her."

"Let me get this straight," John said slowly, sitting next to Willoughby. "You cut off all internet and phone services and sent empty bomb threats," He paused, eyeing the child warily. "Because you were bored?"

"No," Willoughby shook his head. "Because I _could_."

"Oh for the love of-"

"It's understandable," Sherlock said under his breath, but just loud enough for John to hear.

"Understandable?" He yelled, jumping up from his seat. "Sherlock! The kid threatened to blow up Waterloo Station and Piccadilly Circus! How is that in any way understandable?!"

Sherlock shushed his friend before turning back to the boy.

"It was also rather funny," Willoughby laughed. "Watching Jorge running around trying to solve it and getting angry all the time."

Sherlock couldn't hide the small smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Jorge?" John asked, thoroughly annoyed.

"Lestrade," Sherlock clarified.

John rolled his eyes, yelling, "Oh come on, that doesn't even start with a 'g'!"

They were all so preoccupied with their conversation, that they failed to notice another man enter the room. "Well, I see that you two have met," Mycroft Holmes' patronizing tone startled them.

"Yes," Willoughby said enthusiastically. "I wanted to see if he had figured it out yet!"

Sherlock and John exchanged confused glances. The two before them already knew each other; exactly how, baffled both the detective and the doctor.

"Of course," Mycroft responded. "But you are in trouble! Now go with Anthea and wait in the car."

"Yes, sir."

Willoughby gladly obeyed the elder Holmes brother, leaving without saying a word. Mycroft waited until the boy was down the steps before he spoke again. "He's a quick one, isn't he?"

Neither of the two men had a response; they were too stunned to even say anything.

"Well, I really must be going," Mycroft said. "I've got to get little Willoughby home to Master Whitacre. Oh, and Sherlock? Forget about this case. It never happened." Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off. "Willoughby Whitacre is no longer a concern of yours. Stay out of this." With those final words, Mycroft left, letting the door shut quietly behind him.

Sherlock's expression relaxed as he returned to his state of indifference. Even though no credit would be given, he still technically solved the case, and that was all that mattered. "John," He said. "It'd be best if you didn't blog about this one."

"I agree," John concurred quietly. He chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. "That was odd."

"Yes," Sherlock cracked a smile at his friend in return. He turned to the window, watching as the black car drove off, his grin fading. "Very odd."


End file.
